কবিতা ও অনুবাদ : কৌশিক চট্টোপাধ্যায়
The Carpenter & the Endangered Existence
Across cut the saw-mills
The trees and deadbodies.
And the old stories of worms within
Just teeth, friction and enamored existence....
Proximity proves too sharp!
No letter comes from the past...
Desolated time corridor...
Papers are redundant now.
In the realms of paper-mills
Trees are just history.
Now the reticulated veins of lost leaves
Are remembered as watermarks...
Teak forests are decimated.
Their corpses and their privacies are decorating the living rooms of noveau-aristocrats.
The greedy carpenters are now flocking in the woods to pick up the best grades and grains.
The saw reminds me of reincarnation...
Every killer is essentially an artist.
Their handprints embedded in the resins of our deadbodies
Gradually turn antic.
A Metaphor of Gloom
I put my spectacles down...
Haziness suits me fine,
The molten wax of late evening,
My pocketed domestication
And the Morpheus-scape...
After a long time
I saw the dusk getting distilled and bottled
In the horizon..
Drips..drips....from the sleepy leaves
The melancholic crow
Kept pecking unmindfully at
The grains of loneliness...
The story of the sleep and a cat
The cuddly cat looses it's narrative fur and the orange pods melt into a dawn. The sumptuous space between dream scape and the reality stands out... it's a no man's land, it's our future. The cat stays there...it's curled tail forms the bridge of my spectacles, I see through the rosy-lens and enjoy my seesaw days. Well, the oranges were brought from Darjeeling, which is painted bloody in the penultimate hours of curfew. Two local kids are gathering sunlight within the discarded sacs of oranges. Two wild chrysanthemums are blooming wild in their backdrop. All the sweaters, shawls and carpets, woven in that woolen calligraphs, are being sold zealously by the hawkers in Mall Road and tourists are picking them up with gusto. The cat will crawl into my bed in the dead of night...when sleep, dreams and sharp knives will carve pounds of gathered snow.
A Lazy Day with Friends
Friends are a space, a short vacation-
Fluffy shimul drifting lazily
And the glasses filling up with molten gold.
Atin came, in a blue shirt, dotted with moss at random and specks of silvery scales.
'You find time to come at last, after eons?' my voice was edgy.
'Eh, this is the right time!' Atin mocked in his usual confident self, brushing away my complaint
And picked up the glass, his hands uncanny white.
Polu sweared merrily, ' Time is an old bastard. It cares a hoot for you!'
The cut vein on his wrist was still raw crimson
But he was indomitable as usual.
When the adda graduated to its peak
Someone knocked loudly at my door.
We fell silent.
Perhaps the lazy holidays had come back
To take me away along with... quite casually.
The unpublished bio of a safety-pin
The safety-pin feels cornered, insecured and sharpens itself in the growing masochist darkness. The diminishing privacy, subtle tortures...for so many years, relentless. The memories of inseminated turmeric paste, tinge of libido too perhaps, the darkening clouds under the roof of chhatnatala and dreary incessant drizzle... gather around her dark skin and the story rolls on... homelessness, fragmented family, newborns...the colonies keeps getting infested by aggressive ants and wasp-stings. Gradually the safety-pin bends it's steel spine to an unbelievable degree, putting the head between its legs, guarding its semblance of privacy within the hook of the frail arms. The stoic light of its skin, when grew attractively curvaceous under the careful and intelligent hammer-strokes of the coppersmith, it was still oblivious about its growing price and demand, the ensuing patina of bad names and filthy words. This is quintessential of a safety-pin's biography and the subtext of its hidden shapened ends and its bleeding wounds.